


The Listener

by isasolan



Series: Arafinwë [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Brothers, Daddy Issues, Dysfunctional Family, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Gen, Little Brothers, Mind Reading, Mother-Son Relationship, POV Child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 04:09:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isasolan/pseuds/isasolan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little Finarfin finds that he can hear the thoughts of his mother, his father, and his siblings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Listener

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from tumblr.  
> Arafinwë=Finarfin, Ñolofinwë=Fingolfin, Fëanáro=Fëanor  
> Mind reading occurs in various places of the mythology and Finrod and Galadriel seem to be talented at it, so I suppose they learned from their father.

When Arafinwë was a baby, he would often fall asleep to the sound of his mother speaking to his father. Of his sister singing. Of his other sister playing with his brother. Sometimes, too, he fell asleep to the sound of his half-brother's thundering voice.

 

But one day he starts _listening_.

  
  
  


*

 

The first time it happens, he is playing with a flower instead of reading his lessons. They are boring anyway. Metals are dirty and loud, and he does not want to know more about them.

 

And then he hears his mother crying. Weeping, like when Arafinwë loses a toy.

 

He drops the flower and runs to her chambers with a terrible dread choking him. He hears her pain, her sadness. She feels alone. Alone, alone, alone. Abandoned. Like no one ever sees her. Arafinwë is nearly in tears himself when he bursts in her rooms.

 

Indis is not crying. She is startled to see him, but her face is composed, and there are no traces of tears. But I heard her, Arafinwë thinks, confused. He moves closer to her.

 

"Why are you sad?"

 

"I am not sad, my dove," she says, and kisses his hands like when he was a baby.

 

He does not believe her. And if he tries hard enough, he can still hear her sadness, like a faint voice in the air. She does not want him to know. She is trying to be brave. It makes him even sadder, but he will let her think he believes her. That he thinks her brave.

 

He says "I love you," and kisses her face, and pets her golden hair. She smiles a true smile.

 

"Have you finished your lessons?"

 

"No..." he answers sheepishly. "I do not like the lessons. Could we not sing instead? Please. The Varda hymn again."

 

He cuddles on her lap as they sing, and does not let go until the sounds of her sadness have diminished.

  
  
  
  


*

 

He hears his father, too.

 

Arafinwë is sitting in one end of the throne room, quiet and unmoving. Grown-ups hardly ever notice him, so he watches. And listens. The lords and ladies talk to his father, then leave. The last one is a young couple. The wife is weary and holds a babe in her arms. The husband is proud. They are asking for Finwë's blessing to build their house.

 

And then his father cries, _ai, their firstborn, and so fierce.may he never lose her like i did._ Arafinwë gapes at him, but Finwë's smile has never been more placid. He says 'Of course I grant you my blessing' but his eyes are sad, sad because someone he loves went to sleep.

 

The boy does not understand what this means, but walks over to the throne, sliding quietly on the neatly polished floor. Finwë notices him, at last, and raises his eyebrows in surprise. Arafinwë wants to ask 'why are you sad, father?' and 'who went to sleep?' but his father is unlike his mother.

 

He is looking at him with the same puzzled expression he dons when Arafinwë tells him he has not crafted anything. Or when he says he would rather sing in the gardens rather than watch the forgers at work. In fact, his father always looks at him like this. And then he hears him clearly.

 

_this child... so odd, so unlike his brothers. sometimes i fear i know him not._

 

So Arafinwë turns around, and runs.

  
  
  


*

 

That teaches him that listening can hurt. And that he is not supposed to hear all of people’s thoughts, but he does, for some reason. He wishes he could silence it, cover his ears somehow, or his mind.

 

He only feels safe around Findis. Her thoughts are gentle like a song, and like the flowers she weaves on her stitch-cross frame. She is the one he likes best. She is never angry. She calls him sweetfinwë. She looks like him, and she never thinks he should be doing crafty things. Sometimes Arafinwë falls asleep on her lap.

 

"There is no shame in listening," she says when he tells her his secret. "It just makes you understand people better. Then you will not judge them hastily, and you may be kind to them."

  
  
  


*

 

He listens to Lalwendë, hidden in the gardens. She is easy. Her thoughts are loud and clear. But she is often angry and in her head, she calls the Valar names that Arafinwë knows are forbidden to say.

 

_stupid skirts and stupid dress and Nessa’s tits._

 

He giggles quietly, but listens on. Lalwendë looks left and right, but does not see him, and removes her skirts to slide on a pair of Ñolofinwë’s breeches. They are too big for her, but she tightens them around her waist. At least they no longer hinder her to jump through the tall hoops she has planted on the grass.

 

 _i must be strong i must be brave like Ñolo_ , he hears her think. She manages to do it, jumping through the hurdles one by one without faltering and Arafinwë cannot help clapping when she finishes.

 

She gasps and turns to face him, her face red as a beet. “Do not tell anyone!” she hisses.

 

“Never,” he promises, and then thinks ‘be kind’, so he adds, “Ñolo will be proud.”

 

Lalwendë beams at him and curtseys like performers often do after a show.

  
  
  


*

 

Ñolofinwë is tall and always busy. Always studying. Always crafting. Rarely having the time to mind his little brother. Sometimes Arafinwë wishes to be older so they could do more things together. But he is not, so he listens.

 

Ñolo sketches something and when it does not work he crumples the paper and starts again. And again and again until he growls in frustration. He can hear him thinking _not good enough never good enough never like him_. Arafinwë tiptoes to his desk and glances at what he is working on. A circlet, beautiful and delicate. The boy stills his brother's hand before he tears the paper away.

 

"I like it," he says firmly.

 

"You do?" Ñolofinwë sounds startled.

 

"Yes, I like it. You do not have to try so hard, Ñolo. You do not have to be like Fëanáro to be good."

 

Strangely, that has the opposite effect he intended. Ñolofinwë pales, frowns, and bites his lip.

 

"Go away," he tells him, and Arafinwë wishes he had never spoken.

 

But a few weeks later, Ñolofinwë leaves a circlet on his pillow with that same design. Beautiful and delicate and silver.

  
  
  


*

 

A year later he works up the courage to listen to Fëanáro.

 

His other brother. He is older and married and has little boys not far in age with Arafinwë. He does not live in the Palace, and when he visits, he speaks loudly, and only for his father to hear. Arafinwë sees how Ñolofinwë shrinks in his presence, then tries to stand taller, then attempts to say something clever. But Fëanáro is always more witty. Lalwendë takes Ñolo's side. Findis says, ‘come sweetfinwë’, and leads him away to the gardens where no one is arguing. It is nice. Arafinwë likes this better.

 

But he hears Fëanáro, one rare day in the library. Arafinwë loves books with golden letters and silver bindings. He can sit there for hours, not really reading, but just caressing them in awe and practising his calligraphy to look like those of the manuscripts. Fëanáro enters like a gust of wind. He scours a shelf impatiently, evidently looking for an important book. _THERMODYNAMICS_ , his mind all but shouts. _WHERE IS THAT BOOK_. Arafinwë cowers. Fëanáro makes several tomes fall in his haste, and they crash on the floor with a pitiful thud. Arafinwë is on his feet in an instant to pick them up. Books should not be treated like this. He is tiny next to his half-brother, but he does not falter when he places them back on the shelf. Only then does Fëanáro seem to notice him.

 

When their eyes meet, Arafinwë hears everything.

 

_golden haired like her, usurper, child of the usurper, thermodynamics, can’t this child stop staring, alloys, light, mother mother, wavelength, get out of the way golden simpleton, where is that book i hope father has not thrown it away, no he would not do that, the book was mine, i need it, unless it was the imbecile’s doing, that would be something he would do to aggravate me, specific heat and kinetic energy, if i don’t find this equation i will fail fail fail and i will die like she did but what of it maybe dying is not so bad at least i would see her again, the equation why can i not remember it_

 

He does not understand half the words, but he can see what Fëanáro is looking for as clearly as if his half-brother had described it to him. He knows this book. He often admired the ornate leather binding, but never understood what it was about. He hurries over to the other side of the library and climbs on the shelves to find it. That is a bit more daring than he usually is, but he does not want to hear the tidal wave of his brother’s distress resonating so loudly in his head.

 

Fëanáro is speechless when he hands him the book.

 

 _thank you_ , Arafinwë mind-hears, very faintly, but he does hear it. He returns to the table, back to his quills and his calligraphy. Fëanáro, however, is still staring at him.

 

“How did you know?” his brother asks. He flips the pages of the book reverently.

 

Arafinwë just smiles at him.


End file.
